Next to Nothing
by withaflourish
Summary: "It wasn't as if she was surprised or anything, Carolyn thought to herself as she flipped through the sheaf of papers one last time, skimming the legalese to make sure that, yes, everything had gone through correctly and yes, the sale was final. " MJN's time has finally ran out. GERTI's last day, as seen through the eyes of Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.


fractionallyfoxtrot prompted me over on Tumblr for GERTI's last day. I was just supposed to write a short ficlet, but I got a little carried away.  
Warning: very slight allusions to abusive relationships

* * *

It wasn't as if she was _surprised_ or anything, Carolyn thought to herself as she flipped through the sheaf of papers one last time, skimming the legalese to make sure that, yes, everything had gone through correctly and yes, the sale was final. After all, she'd been saying for years that they were on borrowed time, flying a plane on next-to-nothing. But it was one thing to hold the threat of bankruptcy over her pilots' heads and another thing entirely to watch the reality come crashing down.

Part of her wished that she'd just sold the damn thing back in St Petersburg. Not because she wanted Gordon to get his vile slimy hands on it, God no, but it would have been nice to go out in a blaze of glory. Or, at least, as glorious a blaze as a birdstrike could be. But no, the end of GERTI was nothing that dramatic, merely a war of attrition that had finally, painfully come to an end.

Both her pilots (and yes, after five long years, she did think of them as _her_ pilots) would land on their feet, she knew. Martin had already gotten an offer from Swiss Air and Douglas was sure to weasel his way into the captain's seat of another aircraft somewhere. As it was though, their game of "Actors That Could Be Aliens" today was somewhat subdued – Douglas's boasting taunts rang hollow, and Martin's whining about the rules had lost their vehemence. Every now and then, Martin would rush to the loo, rubbing his eyes and muttering something about allergies. They all knew better than to taunt him about crying today.

And then there was Arthur. Oh, her poor dear boy Arthur. He was absolutely heartbroken when she broke the news to him, his face crumpling in despair and disbelief. She tried to console him, describing ice cream trucks and other outlandish endeavours, but he just shook his head as giant sobs wracked his body. "I- I know that'll be great and all, Mum, but I really don't think an ice cream truck's going to be the same as, as GERTI." And there was nothing Carolyn could say to that.

But Arthur put on a brave face for GERTI's final flight. He hoovered and made coffee and pestered Martin and Douglas as if it were just another routine trip. He'd sang atrociously awful tunes and tried to play charades and Carolyn thought that maybe he'd forgotten when he approached her halfway through the flight and said, "Mum, I know it's silly, but d'you think that if I did a really good job on GERTI today and I was really really helpful, we could… have another day? Because I think I am doing a really good job today."

"Arthur-" she started, a sharp reply at the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back and just shook her head mutely.

The crew ended up coming over to her house after the flight (and if Carolyn was secretly pleased about that, she certainly didn't show it). They talked long into the night, reminiscing about Birling Days and angry Americans and the various abuses of the cabin address system. They teased and argued and laughed, but eventually, Douglas and Martin went to their respective homes, promising to keep in touch. Carolyn gently sent Arthur to bed, and once she was sure that her son was fast asleep, she crept into the garage. There, she dug up a dusty can of paint and an equally dusty paintbrush and, loading the supplies into her trunk, drove off towards Fitton airfield.

She fished the hangar key out of her pocket and opened the door. The _tap-tap_ of her shoes clicking against the concrete floor echoed around the vast space as she approached the plane, grabbing a nearby ladder and dragging it with her as she went. When she reached the end of the plane, she climbed up the ladder, willing herself to be strong and stern and the dragon-lady CEO for one last time. She tried not to look at GERTI, focusing instead on prying open the paint can, its lid sealed tight with errant paint that had dried long ago. The last time she'd opened that very can, she was 5 years younger and filled with the foolish hope of the newly divorced and naively entrepreneurial. She'd been filled with silly romantic metaphors about clean slates and white paint and fixing up what had been damaged and unloved. And now, well, now she knew those flights of fancies for what they were: lies and illusions and false hopes. Sure, GERTI had brought her joy in its own strange way. She'd seen the world, held her own against royalty and irate tour guides alike, found a way to reconnect with her son and heal the wounds his father had inflicted— but didn't that just make it worse when it was all taken away? _Crack!_ The lid popped open and the paint's surface sloshed gently, white and rippling and mocking. Dipping the brush in the paint, she carefully traced over the letters on the tail, willing her hand not to shake.

MJN.

My Jet Now.

_Not anymore_, she thought to herself, and, in that empty airplane hangar, for the first time since she'd signed those damn papers, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey let herself cry.


End file.
